


A Lesson in Communication (sort of)

by misha_collins_butt



Series: I Knew I Loved You [10]
Category: Supernatural, destiel - Fandom
Genre: Dean Winchester - Freeform, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Destiel Fluff, Dominant Dean, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, SO, Sabriel - Freeform, Snogging, Yum, and wincest, bunker kissing, casdean - Freeform, castiel - Freeform, castiel is smol sinnamon rol, definite snogging, dom!Dean, fluffy fluff, i also do, idk - Freeform, its a short fic, kind of, kind of frottage?, not really - Freeform, send in those prompts, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:46:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4745150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_collins_butt/pseuds/misha_collins_butt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The angel Ambriel (angel of communication in Wicca and old Christian lore - I know, kind of an obscure reference but I had to figure out something to work with because this was a fic for an Instagram contest so) pushes Dean to realise how much he really loves Cas because she's sick of watching them eye fuck all the time - as is everyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lesson in Communication (sort of)

She can't get it off her mind. The way they just...stare at each other. Like they're sharing some deep conversation through telepathy. She knows that's not what's happening but those two have something really special, something most people will never get in any lifetime into which they're reincarnated - and the most infuriating part is that they don't even know they have it. Or they're choosing not to acknowledge it.

Either way, she's had enough. She's been dealing with it for a year now, since Sam and Dean found her, bleeding out in a ditch somewhere after she was stabbed by another angel with a kitchen knife and they took her back to this giant-ass bunker in bum-fuck nowhere Kansas to stitch her up. When she woke, she saw Castiel and, despite several minor injuries and a sprained ankle that still smarts when she walks today, she struggled out of the bed and ran to him, wrapped her slender arms around her brother and wept out the years of pain and insecurity and fear and lost faith into a beige trench coat. She hadn't seen him in seven years, up until then.

She started noticing the connection between these two utter idiots soon after, and she's sick and entirely too tired of their bullshit. They've obviously been weaving an intricate path around each other for years now, sidestepping and avoiding anything more than a casual hand on the shoulder or a not-so-discreet soul-pairing session which generally consists of them staring across the table at each other and tuning out the rest of the world to some degree. It's easy to tell this is what's been happening because Sam seems so irrevocably frustrated but he also seems to have redically accepted the fact that nothing is going to happen and they're all just going to have to deal with it.

She's no longer surprised by the nickname Dean has given Castiel or the love and adoration in her brother's eyes when she glances up from a heavy tome or some translation of Latin she's helping the brothers with only to catch Cas's eyes super-glued to Dean or when Dean's hand brushes Cas' arm in the most _heterosexual way possible_ and Cas visibly shudders as a magenta flush crawls up his scruffy cheeks.

And she's no longer shocked when she sees the way Dean visibly straightens and adjusts his entire demeanour when Castiel walks into the room or when Castiel does something that only further proves his clumsiness even after so long on Earth and Dean's cheeks paint themselves a pretty light pink and he actually fucking _giggles_  or when Castiel snuggles up on the couch with a book and a contented smile and Dean peeks up at the back of his head through long brown lashes and the teensiest of smirks lifts the corners of his lips.

But, Dad, is she disgusted. It's as if they just choose to ignore the absolute obvious in the most arrogant, autocratic, presumptuous way known to man. So, damn right, she's got a plan.

She plops down in the chair beside Dean. Looks at him, looks at his food in disgust - more fattening potato grease sticks and a dead cow between two pieces of bread, and a brown-bottled, unnamable brand of beer - and then looks across the table at Castiel, who is gracious enough to take a break from ogling the human to smile at her.

"Hello Ambriel," he speaks in a gentle voice and a kind nod, his oceanic eyes lapping at the edges of themselves as they battle not to give away what is already so obvious - his abhorrent, blustering, befuddled love for humanity, for this one human, right here.

She smirks and looks down at the table, and, when she no longer feels Castiel's eyes on her, she peeks up at Dean through her periphery and smirks harder.

"So, Dean," she starts and Dean turns to her with raised brows and a mouthful of food, paused mid-chew and aching to continue. "I have a question. For the sake of your mental health." He squints, rolls his eyes and resumes his chewing, but waves his hand to go on. "On average, how many hours a day do you stare at Castiel and think about how much you want to kiss him?"

He chokes on food he was halfway through swallowing and starts into the most ridiculously dramatic coughing fit of the year.

Ambriel gets a glimpse of her brother, sitting board-backed and frozen in his chair across from Dean, headed tilted down along with his eyes as he stares at a single, incomprehensible spot in the centre of the table and his cheeks go from tan to porcelain pale to bright fuchsia and back again.

"I mean," she continues without waiting for Dean to cut the act, "it's obviously quite a few, but I just figured I could take a survey, and maybe force you to really think about just how absolutely, contemptuously in love you two asshats are." She snatches a disgusting 'fry' - so the humans call them - from Dean's wax-paper wrapping, stand-in plate and casually munches on just the end. "You know, considering...I'm the angel of communications and all."

Dean sits there with his mouth gaping and his incredulous eyes glued to her serene ones, coloured a sharp, dangerous brown and scribbled in with lines and flecks of green and gold. She uses her finger to nonchalantly twist a strand of more-orange-than-blonde hair around her bony finger and smiles sweetly, innocently at the asshole who can't get his shit together enough to admit to any emotion regarding anything even remotely close to 'love'.

He shakes his head in disgust and annoyance and turns back to his food, sinking further into his chair and half-heartedly tossing two fries at her face, which she dodges effortlessly. He's trying to give it up, but Ambriel is obstinate and resolute, dead-set on this one thing now.

"He looks at you too, you know," she pushes, pushes, pushes, strength never faltering, even knowing what she's doing to him and still putting all her weight into breaking through this flimsily hinged, layer-after-layer steel door, built up over nearly 37 years of pain and no gain, of manning up and forgetting childhood, of pushing away whatever good there was because he knew from experience that good is easily lost. Now to add the ice, either to cut through the metal or to let the water expand and the door explode. "But I guess you wouldn't care would you? No, because you don't give two shits about him, right? Am I right, Dean? Nah, you couldn't care less. Because he's just an angel. An inferior species, right?" Dean's breathing hard, not meeting anyone's gaze, and she raises her voice. "Am I still in the ballpark, Dean?!"

"Enough!" Dean slams his hands on the table and the grating, squeaking scrape of wood chair against wood floor fills the room as he shoves away from the table, food and beer forgotten, and storms out through the high arc of the entrance to the library.

She switches her gaze to Castiel and almost regrets the shine of fright and innocence and bewilderment in his eyes as they flit from the doorway to her.

"He loves you, Castiel," she whispers, and Cas's lips part slowly, eyebrows dropping low over the hurt in his eyes.

"Why wouldn't he tell me, then?" He whispers back, voice crackling with pending tears and a tiny, shimmering little glimmer of hope.

Ambriel drops her gaze, as it's entirely too difficult to watch her brother as he crumbles and breaks and silently sobs inside.

"I don't know, Cas," she breathes. "I don't know."

\----

She hears them speaking softly at first, hours later, in the dead of a grape-wine, sodium and star lit night, through all the walls between the library and Dean's room, but she's unable to discern exactly what's being said. And then their voices raise to unnecessary levels, and, though they're still indistinct and mumbling, she cringes slightly.

Then there's a distant crash and a muffled thud and she's up and rushing to Dean's room, heart pounding out a beat that the dusty crater dangling in the sky dances along to. She hurries down the hallway with floating easy and spots Dean's door slightly ajar, hears Cas gasping, and she swears to Dad if that asshole hurt her broth--

Everything pauses around her. The moon and the sky and fire of the sun glaring at the other side of the world and the breeze through the grass and the sway of the willow tree across the abandoned street from the bunker and the creak of an obscure cricket's legs.

Because the first thing she sees when she slams through that door is Dean holding Cas against the wall with gentle fingers on his waist and tangled in his hair, and Castiel's arm slipping hesitantly around Dean's back as the human kisses the living Heaven out of the angel.

Ambriel's eyebrows shoot up into her hairline and her mouth falls open in a kind of lopsided 'oh' as she realises what must have just happened.

The next thing she realises is that they must not have heard her barge in - which is not in the least bit surprising considering how caught up in each other they get - and that they sure as hell do not hear her as she slips back out and clicks the door shut silently.

She purses her lips and leans back against the wood, squinting at the flaws and warps in the opposite wall and contemplating all that must have been said to lead up to what she just saw, and whatever role she played in it.

She smiles slowly, nodding, and pushes away from the door, shoving her hands in the back pockets of her vessel's jeans and starting comfortably down the hallway.

Not everything can be talked out, but, damn, is it nice to know some things are infinitely more conversable than popular archetypes make them out to be.

Maybe it wouldn't be so horrible to stick around for a while. After all, she _is_ the angel of communication.

Dad knows this dysfunctional, codependent, broken-down little family needs some of that every now and again.

**Author's Note:**

> Far from my best but it's been a few weeks and I'm excited to have my mojo back after an unfortunate incident with my old mobile device wherein I opened my native notes app to finish editing an entire, /finished/ set of ABC drabbles and none of my notes were there. They were all just gone, we couldn't figure anything out, how the hell they could've possibly disappeared is beyond me, I did nothing different that day, they were just gone. I got some back that were on iCloud but it wasn't helpful because none of the important ones were there so fuck you Apple. Anyway, this is the first time in a while I've felt comfortable writing. So sorry if it's shitty, I'm just getting back into things after, like, a two month hiatus.


End file.
